d-d-d-d-day 3
THIS IS LOOOOOONNNNNG. If you don't have time to read it, I suggest you start at the Rochas section.
This was the day I started making notes at the shows (on the backs of envelopes and maps of the Louvre) hence it's the length of an A Level essay. I'm not putting it under a cut cos it looks denser and uglier reading it.
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DAY 3
Wednesday
The third day of shows was a mammoth one, with actual invites and places to be at certain times.
Louise had an airport rendezvous, so had given me all her Wednesday morning invites. I flicked through and decided which to attend (haha this is the life, eh?). Paco Rabanne was OUT because, aside from the unreasonably early 9am start in the 4th arrondissement, the invite said ‘Monsieur Cavan Pawson’ and PHOTOGRAPHER in block capitals, and I wasn’t prepared to attempt to convince some PR woman that a small brunette girl with a handheld silver camera was the photographer from the Evening Standard that early in the day. Thus I was left with some unpronounceable off-schedule designer and Jean-Louis Scherrer. After the previous day’s run in with the Lutz show, I was in no mood to sit through some awful student vision, so Scherrer it was. I quickly googled him, since his name rang slightly familiar and discovered that he’d been creating couture gowns forever, which gave some kind of hope.
I arrived at the Carrousel de Louvre and was swished past security with a smile, waving my ticket (hoping they didn’t recognise me as the girl who blagged her way in a few days before), and stood in the large line that was swelling outside the Scherrer show. Isabel Marant had an audience populated with brunette young French fashionistas; Scherrer was the exact opposite - full of expensively highlighted blondes, like the two old Italian ladies in front of me, all big Sophia Loren hair and fake tans. Despite my mismatched mustard jumper and black and white scarf I took a secret glee in all this, watching the ladies seat themselves and check out the competition. This was a show on a big scale - a 700-strong audience (waiting around for shows to start gives you time to work these things out) comprising mostly wealthy French and foreign women. It was everything the Lutz show wasn’t. If you have ever spent time imagining what a fashion show looks like, this was it - the loud 70s music that started the show, the almost American sheen of perfection (this was the anti-Belgian school aesthetic), and my favourite, shiny beautiful girls who could really walk. The show was the epitome of luxe, all sleek suits, fur and expensively slouchy wide trousers. It seemed almost like luxury office wear, when it struck me, as I looked around at the audience, that this was the wardrobe for Ladies That Lunch. Judging from the devoted and wealthy clientele, it’s clearly not too important for Scherrer to be trend-led, but I was impressed that certain elements still allowed it to feel young and modern (in a way I often feel designers like Armani and Valentino do not), with the use of metallic gold touches and a super-sweet polka dot blazer. All in all, it appeared to be a contrast between sharp tailoring and silk floaty dresses - the rapturous applause denoting that the autumn/winter day and evening wardrobes of these women has been successfully sorted.
After wiling away in-between-show time in my favourite part of the Louvre, I finally got to use another ticket bearing my own name. The show was for Dice Kayek, a girl whose name I’d never heard and whose clothes I’d never seen. I’m not ashamed to say that the first thing that impressed me as the show started was the models, top models I recognised from the pages of Vogue. Many of them were next door impressing the major press at Hussein Chalayan, but stalking the catwalk in front of me we Morgane Dubled, Marina Perez, Lisa Cant and Sasha Pivovarova (who has the fiercest walk I’ve ever seen). But then I adjusted to look at the clothes and was more than pleasantly surprised. Scrawling things down on the back of an envelope, not wanting to miss a trick. There were definitely recognisable shapes from other shows, a trend emerging that I can only poorly describe as ‘swingy’ (ahem). The pencil skirted lady of the previous season disappeared in an instant, replaced by the one quality it lacked - movement! Dresses and skirts moved out in soft puffs, recalling the tulip skirt, but here shorter and more wearable. Platforms had been in most shows I’d seen, but Kayek’s were definitely the most powerful, big black clumps on the feet of these fresh young things. The shapes reminded me of Viktor and Rolf’s dresses earlier in the week, but this was a younger take on the couture aesthetic, almost like a hip young girl playing dress-up with women’s clothes, making ‘ladylike’ her own. The subdued palette cropped up once again - if Paris has anything to do with it, we’ll be dressed in grey, black and white this winter, but metallics appeared in the shape of a silver trenchcoat. The collection didn’t disregard previous trends entirely, however. Dice retained high waists and straight legged trousers, trends which have been adopted by women worldwide, ensuring them continuing legacy in our wardrobes.
When your invite says ‘Rochas’ you feel nervous and insanely excited. When it also says ‘Monsieur Cavan Pawson’ and you are prone to worrying, you feel nervous and more than slightly sick. When you also know that you have to get through 2 sets of security at the evening show at the Tuileries with the aforementioned invite, then the butterflies seriously start to kick in. I had 6 hours to worry about this. I told people ‘If I don’t get in, it doesn’t matter’ whilst secretly fearing PR women and preparing myself for the idea that I wouldn’t get to see a Rochas show up close.
Dressed in a wool dress, I strode confidently up to the gates, flashed my invite and was greeted with huge smiles from the security who ushered me through. Then I was presented with a dilemma - do I attempt the Press entrance, guarded by PR women with big lists and risk not getting in? Thankfully there was another way - the Standing queue. People are actually sent invites which tell them they can come and stand at the back at a show. And lo and behold, when the seating people were in, so was I! This time I had no one’s hand to hold when I felt giddy, but there was a spare seat at the back so I seated myself and held my breath, trying not to stare at Camilla Morton, seated a few rows in front.
The orange catwalk changed to white, and the lights dimmed and a drum beat started up. What surprised me the most was that Olivier Theyskens started by sending out a series of suits. In word association, if someone said ‘Rochas’ I’d immediately think ‘dresses’, and not any dresses, but those long exquisite almost Victorian dresses. The fashion press know the man is talented, and here he showed off his equal technical skill for tailoring. He followed this with little dresses and swingy jackets. They were clearly more wearable pieces, but it didn’t smack of desperately trying to be commercial, rather expanding the Rochas aesthetic. Everything was exquisite and polished, and all those lovely words you’d associate with the label. Then, ‘those’ dresses appeared; but rather than be trotted out as a ‘greatest hit’ each season they were kept fresh with different materials and looks. He also sent out what can only be described as a cloud dress, the bottom of it puffing out in chiffon, which was so divine I cannot help but gush. The muted greys, charcoals and whites were seen again, banding together what Theyskens described as a group of chic chimney sweeps. He has definitely given Rochas a clear brand identity, but those who know his own work can discern some of his own personality and style. At heart, he’s a goth, and his Rochas’ collections are his own version of romantic (not hearts and flowers, but the chimney sweeps together high above the streets of London), not obvious but understated and understood.
So there I was, trying to call Bill back whilst departing from the tents and I stopped. The one person I’d wanted to see all week, the one person I told the others that they MUST make me talk to was standing right in front of me. Hadley Freeman is deputy fashion editor at The Guardian. She writes this piece called ‘Ask Hadley’ as well as other things, and the way that she, Jess Cartner-Morley and Charlie Porter write, makes them seem incredibly familiar. And a definite hero of mine. She was walking near me, wearing Chanel earmuffs and I was convincing myself that someone wearing Chanel earmuffs couldn’t be mean. So, against all my usual sense, I turned round to her and asked if she was Hadley Freeman (I knew that, but it’s an ice breaker!). I told her I was a big fan of her writing and instead of laughing she was really nice. Something garbled came out about that sounding really cheesy, but she was flattered and lovely and asked me a whole heap of questions, before she had to go, saying ‘Hope to see you soon!’
Alice received her second stupidly excited phone call of the week after that.
This was the day I started making notes at the shows (on the backs of envelopes and maps of the Louvre) hence it's the length of an A Level essay. I'm not putting it under a cut cos it looks denser and uglier reading it.
------------------------------------------------
DAY 3
Wednesday
The third day of shows was a mammoth one, with actual invites and places to be at certain times.
Louise had an airport rendezvous, so had given me all her Wednesday morning invites. I flicked through and decided which to attend (haha this is the life, eh?). Paco Rabanne was OUT because, aside from the unreasonably early 9am start in the 4th arrondissement, the invite said ‘Monsieur Cavan Pawson’ and PHOTOGRAPHER in block capitals, and I wasn’t prepared to attempt to convince some PR woman that a small brunette girl with a handheld silver camera was the photographer from the Evening Standard that early in the day. Thus I was left with some unpronounceable off-schedule designer and Jean-Louis Scherrer. After the previous day’s run in with the Lutz show, I was in no mood to sit through some awful student vision, so Scherrer it was. I quickly googled him, since his name rang slightly familiar and discovered that he’d been creating couture gowns forever, which gave some kind of hope.
I arrived at the Carrousel de Louvre and was swished past security with a smile, waving my ticket (hoping they didn’t recognise me as the girl who blagged her way in a few days before), and stood in the large line that was swelling outside the Scherrer show. Isabel Marant had an audience populated with brunette young French fashionistas; Scherrer was the exact opposite - full of expensively highlighted blondes, like the two old Italian ladies in front of me, all big Sophia Loren hair and fake tans. Despite my mismatched mustard jumper and black and white scarf I took a secret glee in all this, watching the ladies seat themselves and check out the competition. This was a show on a big scale - a 700-strong audience (waiting around for shows to start gives you time to work these things out) comprising mostly wealthy French and foreign women. It was everything the Lutz show wasn’t. If you have ever spent time imagining what a fashion show looks like, this was it - the loud 70s music that started the show, the almost American sheen of perfection (this was the anti-Belgian school aesthetic), and my favourite, shiny beautiful girls who could really walk. The show was the epitome of luxe, all sleek suits, fur and expensively slouchy wide trousers. It seemed almost like luxury office wear, when it struck me, as I looked around at the audience, that this was the wardrobe for Ladies That Lunch. Judging from the devoted and wealthy clientele, it’s clearly not too important for Scherrer to be trend-led, but I was impressed that certain elements still allowed it to feel young and modern (in a way I often feel designers like Armani and Valentino do not), with the use of metallic gold touches and a super-sweet polka dot blazer. All in all, it appeared to be a contrast between sharp tailoring and silk floaty dresses - the rapturous applause denoting that the autumn/winter day and evening wardrobes of these women has been successfully sorted.
After wiling away in-between-show time in my favourite part of the Louvre, I finally got to use another ticket bearing my own name. The show was for Dice Kayek, a girl whose name I’d never heard and whose clothes I’d never seen. I’m not ashamed to say that the first thing that impressed me as the show started was the models, top models I recognised from the pages of Vogue. Many of them were next door impressing the major press at Hussein Chalayan, but stalking the catwalk in front of me we Morgane Dubled, Marina Perez, Lisa Cant and Sasha Pivovarova (who has the fiercest walk I’ve ever seen). But then I adjusted to look at the clothes and was more than pleasantly surprised. Scrawling things down on the back of an envelope, not wanting to miss a trick. There were definitely recognisable shapes from other shows, a trend emerging that I can only poorly describe as ‘swingy’ (ahem). The pencil skirted lady of the previous season disappeared in an instant, replaced by the one quality it lacked - movement! Dresses and skirts moved out in soft puffs, recalling the tulip skirt, but here shorter and more wearable. Platforms had been in most shows I’d seen, but Kayek’s were definitely the most powerful, big black clumps on the feet of these fresh young things. The shapes reminded me of Viktor and Rolf’s dresses earlier in the week, but this was a younger take on the couture aesthetic, almost like a hip young girl playing dress-up with women’s clothes, making ‘ladylike’ her own. The subdued palette cropped up once again - if Paris has anything to do with it, we’ll be dressed in grey, black and white this winter, but metallics appeared in the shape of a silver trenchcoat. The collection didn’t disregard previous trends entirely, however. Dice retained high waists and straight legged trousers, trends which have been adopted by women worldwide, ensuring them continuing legacy in our wardrobes.
When your invite says ‘Rochas’ you feel nervous and insanely excited. When it also says ‘Monsieur Cavan Pawson’ and you are prone to worrying, you feel nervous and more than slightly sick. When you also know that you have to get through 2 sets of security at the evening show at the Tuileries with the aforementioned invite, then the butterflies seriously start to kick in. I had 6 hours to worry about this. I told people ‘If I don’t get in, it doesn’t matter’ whilst secretly fearing PR women and preparing myself for the idea that I wouldn’t get to see a Rochas show up close.
Dressed in a wool dress, I strode confidently up to the gates, flashed my invite and was greeted with huge smiles from the security who ushered me through. Then I was presented with a dilemma - do I attempt the Press entrance, guarded by PR women with big lists and risk not getting in? Thankfully there was another way - the Standing queue. People are actually sent invites which tell them they can come and stand at the back at a show. And lo and behold, when the seating people were in, so was I! This time I had no one’s hand to hold when I felt giddy, but there was a spare seat at the back so I seated myself and held my breath, trying not to stare at Camilla Morton, seated a few rows in front.
The orange catwalk changed to white, and the lights dimmed and a drum beat started up. What surprised me the most was that Olivier Theyskens started by sending out a series of suits. In word association, if someone said ‘Rochas’ I’d immediately think ‘dresses’, and not any dresses, but those long exquisite almost Victorian dresses. The fashion press know the man is talented, and here he showed off his equal technical skill for tailoring. He followed this with little dresses and swingy jackets. They were clearly more wearable pieces, but it didn’t smack of desperately trying to be commercial, rather expanding the Rochas aesthetic. Everything was exquisite and polished, and all those lovely words you’d associate with the label. Then, ‘those’ dresses appeared; but rather than be trotted out as a ‘greatest hit’ each season they were kept fresh with different materials and looks. He also sent out what can only be described as a cloud dress, the bottom of it puffing out in chiffon, which was so divine I cannot help but gush. The muted greys, charcoals and whites were seen again, banding together what Theyskens described as a group of chic chimney sweeps. He has definitely given Rochas a clear brand identity, but those who know his own work can discern some of his own personality and style. At heart, he’s a goth, and his Rochas’ collections are his own version of romantic (not hearts and flowers, but the chimney sweeps together high above the streets of London), not obvious but understated and understood.
So there I was, trying to call Bill back whilst departing from the tents and I stopped. The one person I’d wanted to see all week, the one person I told the others that they MUST make me talk to was standing right in front of me. Hadley Freeman is deputy fashion editor at The Guardian. She writes this piece called ‘Ask Hadley’ as well as other things, and the way that she, Jess Cartner-Morley and Charlie Porter write, makes them seem incredibly familiar. And a definite hero of mine. She was walking near me, wearing Chanel earmuffs and I was convincing myself that someone wearing Chanel earmuffs couldn’t be mean. So, against all my usual sense, I turned round to her and asked if she was Hadley Freeman (I knew that, but it’s an ice breaker!). I told her I was a big fan of her writing and instead of laughing she was really nice. Something garbled came out about that sounding really cheesy, but she was flattered and lovely and asked me a whole heap of questions, before she had to go, saying ‘Hope to see you soon!’
Alice received her second stupidly excited phone call of the week after that.